


Like a Broken Mirror

by ParadoxinMotion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Assassin!Lock, Drunkenness, F/M, M/M, Trigger Warnings, Unhealthy Relationships, mild depictions of violence, weekend challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 21:46:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2363243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadoxinMotion/pseuds/ParadoxinMotion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John calls him Broken. And Beautiful. And Fragile. He sees himself in the mirror every morning, and he knows that he deserves the names. But they are not meant in a hurtful way; Sherlock sees himself more clearly than anyone. Like the shards of a shattered mirror, John says.</p>
<p>Broken, but still beautiful.</p>
<p>Beautiful and deadly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Broken Mirror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnneCumberbatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneCumberbatch/gifts).



-=-=-=-=-

**One**

**-=-=-=-=-**

The Siberian winters do not constitute casual visitations. Not only is the inclement weather enough to scare any tourist off, but it’s also filled with widespread turmoil and underground threats.

Sherlock is not bothered at all by the one, but he is infinitely concerned about the other.

The next logical step, therefore, is take up lodgings somewhere where he doesn’t have to pay a long term rent. He’s uninterested in a flatmate, and it isn’t long where he finds a little old man with a cocaine addiction and no job. A small amount every week or so keeps him there with hot water and a stocked kitchen to boot. The Siberian way of life is a simple one, he’ll give them that.

He’s been in the country for one month when the summons come for him to kill. No one individual, not even Mycroft, could tell him the names of everyone that poses a threat to his home in London, but going one target at a time will accomplish more than waiting. His first target is a low-level politician by the name of Boris Vsevold with an affiliation in Moriarty’s crime circles. Fifty-six years old, overweight, and with a life expectancy of four more years, five at best. It doesn’t take long for him to find a drugstore that sells ethylene glycol and pay him a visit.

The man dies in his sleep three days later.

They don’t even give him an autopsy.

-=-=-=-=-

He moves on to another flat eighteen miles away. It’s a small affair, not nearly as inviting as 221B, but habitable nonetheless. He finds the landlady’s missing cat and she gives him a week’s lodgings for free. It’s all he needs.

At night he smokes cigarettes and stares up at the frigid sky and shivers even though he isn’t cold, and wonders what John would say. What John would think, if he could see him now. He blows out a puff of smoke and tries to imagine his face, watching him like he so often used to.

-=-=-=-=-

“You’ve received an invitation to a dinner party being hosted by your next target,” Mycroft informs him, placid voice sounding disinterested.

“And how on earth did I garner that?” Sherlock inquires, his sarcasm almost painful.

Mycroft laughs drily. “You’ll find your suit waiting for you at your flat.”

They hang up without so much as a goodbye.

Sherlock researches him that night before getting dressed. A picture tells him most of what he needs to know, and the file completes it. (Closeted gay no current lover very fond of fine wine status: Important Informant.)

In the left pocket, the tiniest of plastic bags with scopolamine. It makes Sherlock smile.

-=-=-=-

The suit is well-fitted, and it hugs his frame in all the right places. Sherlock adjusts his bowtie and puts on a smile to the mirror. It looks fragile and insincere, but only he will know that.

Mycroft sends a car for him and he gets on his way, the lights ahead of houses full of mirth like mockery in his ears.

The party is a substantial affair, hundreds of glittering people in the finest clothes and wine to make Mycroft envious. Sherlock picks the man out, sitting at the bar sipping at a glass of alcohol and approaches him casually.

It’s far too easy to flirt him into relaxation, and even easier to slip the drug into his pinot grigio. When he suggests they get themselves a room, he complies immediately.

Later, as he pulls the man into bed and lets him take him as he wants, (which means riding the older man until he's howling in Russian,) he tries not to feel sick at how very wrong it is. How very unlike John the man below him is, how he could never, ever be John and never ever will be. What would John think, if he could see him now?

Whispered answers and promises of further information; the man's drug-addled mind gives him what he needs and lets him deduce the rest.

The man is found dead in his bed the next morning by his nephew Viktor, suffering from respiratory collapse. It had been expected for some time; the man was carrying far too many extra pounds and his heart had never been strong.

What a shame.

-=-=-=-

Joining a Siberian terrorist network is less tricky than it might sound. The true difficulty is in keeping up the facade. Sherlock does not enjoy speaking Russian; but he breathes out every syllable with _John_ in the back of his mind and it comes easier. He's been in Siberia for six months, two of which he's spent solely getting the leaders of the squad to trust him. He would never forget how many people he had to kill for the sake of loyalty, how many guilty souls were borne on his back.

But once he has the swing of it, killing gets easier and easier. He feels no remorse shooting Arkada, (Russian woman wife of squad leader terrorist level: Intimate). The shouts that follow and the footsteps behind him are music to his ears.

Over, and over, he picks off each person on his list. One by one. Life for life, death for death.

And it is all for the same cause. He fight under the same banner. All of it, everything, he does for John.

-=-=-=-=-

He has garnered a name for himself. They call him Vostochnyy Veter. The East Wind. If the East Wind is coming for you, you don't talk about it. Usually because you don't find out about it yourself; someone else always seems to know. A friend, a brother, an enemy. Whispered words in a dark hallway or a scrap of paper with hastily written words. Whatever the message's form, it always said the same thing.

 

_The East Wind is coming for you._

 

Sherlock likes the name. It fits. He seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the earth in worship of a higher name. But it is no deity his mind drifts to when he drops off for a few hours' sleep at night, or when the _shlyukha_ , the whores ask him to share their bed. He doesn't even have to pay, they promise. It makes his stomach turn; makes invisible sickness fester in his heart. They are nothing. They are less than nothing, could never even begin to compare to the perfection that John is. John is everything, and his name burns like a brand on Sherlock's brain, like a tattoo he could never erase, not put there by physical hands. He had the idea once of having John's name inked onto his left wrist; a token he could always look to when he had doubts or fears about killing. But the whole reason of him being here was so that no one could touch John, no one could soil his name with their filthy mouths or ever even foster the idea of hurting him.

Sherlock would have bombed Siberia first. The country going up in flames, eating away flesh and cloth and stone. A primal offering of the most ironic kind, given all to John. A city brought to its knees so it could bow in homage to him.

It was such a beautiful idea.

-=-=-=-

**Two**

**-=-=-=-**

Two years, three months and forty-two days. Two years, three months and forty-two days of hiding, of sneaking, of killing, of saving. Of waiting.

And now it's all to end as he runs for his life in a forest wet with freezing rain.

His hair is in ruins; the tie he used to keep it back broken, his skin slathered with mud. His clothes are tatters in the inclement weather. If only John were there to warm him up. But the East Wind knows no warmth; it is cold and dark and has no concept or remorse or fear. If he is to die, then he'll die. John is safe. John will always be safe.

They torture him, but he'd known that they would. Beat him until his skin was crusted with blood, pulled his hair until it ripped from its roots. He knows his left third rib is broken. One wrist is sprained. Gradually, everything fades into a haze of pain and he can ignore the thudding of his temples; the throbbing of his ribs where he pulls in every treacherous breath.

The man with the whip bends forward, ready for the last hits. Sherlock is powerless, and he knows it. He cannot fight the man, and the man knows it. One last deduction. One last parting word to ease himself out of the world. Let it never be said The East Wind died silent.

It works.

It works.

The man runs-runs to his wife and the man she's taken over him to love. Human Error has, once again, saved his life.

The man sitting in the corner stands up. Approaches him and pulls him up by the hair.

Sherlock recognizes his voice.

_It’s time to go home._

-=-=-=-=-

In the hotel room outside of London, where he spends the night before finding John, because of course he would have found him, he will always find him. He could never not find him. Sherlock touches himself, envisioning John's beautiful face above him. He ruts against his own fingers, eyes squeezed closed as he imagines John pressing into him, taking him slow and tender then hard and fast and everything in between. He holds his pillow close, this anchor of softness that will hold him off for the few hours left before he can enfold John in his arms and hold him tightly enough to never let go. He needs to touch him; it’s a physical burn in his limbs to get up and find him. But he has to wait. He must wait; he _can_ wait.

He promised that he would wait.

-=-=-=-

John is engaged to a serial killer.

Her name is Mary. She is thirty-four years with short blonde hair and a wicked smile. Her eyes are bright with intelligence and the need to find amusement.

She is so marvelously subtle, so teasingly hinting, just barely offering her reasons for being there.

But John loves her. And she makes him happy.

When he cannot find John in the flat he immediately seeks her out, his face anamaline in its fury.

“Where is he?” He shouts, gripping her wrists so tightly they turn white.

Mary smiles at him. “If you get going now, I’ll text you clues.”

Sherlock intercepts a motorcyclist and waits, shaking with anger and fear.

His phone beeps not five minutes later.

_Save Souls now! John or James Watson?_

And then followed by, _Saint or Sinner? James or John? The more is Less?_

Skip code. He can do a skip code.

His mind races to connect the dots. St. James the Less, approximately ten minutes going ETA. He takes off, speed limit and traffic laws ignored. They aren’t important right now, nothing is important right now except for the dying man that needs him.

He’s thirty seconds later. _Getting warmer, Mr. Holmes. You have about ten minutes._

Two minutes pass. _8 minutes and counting…_

As if he needs to be told.

He runs into a traffic hold-up; going across the sidewalk and through a side street will take five minutes. He does the only thing he can.

Three flights of stone steps and five minutes later he receives a fourth text.

_Better hurry; things are heating up here._

There are tears running down his cheeks from his eyes being so wide from constantly looking, and his hands are shaking on the handle bars. But he can do this. He must do this.

And, at least, a small reward for his efforts. For some reason, whatever’s happening to John has been slowed down. _Stay of execution. You’ve got two more minutes._

Somehow it doesn’t comfort him.

He takes a straight path instead of the more legal winding one and cuts down two minutes.

As his eyes fasten on a group of people laughing and talking around a bonfire, he gets one last text.

_What a shame, Mr. Holmes. John is quite a Guy!_

And the pieces lock together.

He doesn’t just _jump_ off his motorcycle; he _throws_ himself off, scrambling madly towards the licking flames, eating up the wood that covers his most precious thing.

“Move!” He barely hears himself yelling, but the crowd parts anyway. “Move move move _John-“_

He digs through the wood, coughing back smoke and ash and the pungent smell of lighter fluid. _John,_ his mind is screaming, and he can feel his mouth screaming it too.

_Please John please please please_

John is underneath the wood. Blood oozes from a cut on his temple and his face is pale, but he is alive. He is alive as Sherlock lays him on the ground and cups his face, brushing strands of hair from his forehead.

_John,_ he whispers.

The man in his arms just coughs out smoke.

-=-=-=-=-

John marries her.

He marries her, because Sherlock cannot tell him that Mary tried to kill him, and to Mary it is all a game. An amusing pastime to be dropped when the fancy strikes her.

Sherlock was hunted for years by people who wanted him dead, and yet he has never been so afraid as he is now.

The game is never over.

-=-=-=-=-

Months pass, and Sherlock can tell that Mary is getting bored. Domestic life does not suit her, nothing suits her. She is petulant and snappish, and John tells him it’s because she’s just been settling in.

Sherlock pulls her aside and tells her to try to kill him if she gets too bored. She licks her lipsticked lips and nods, glee sparking in her eyes.

-=-=-=-

And she does try to kill him. But with a slightly different method than he’d been anticipating; being shot in cold blood in the flat. She's grown tired of the game, she whispers to him. Time to move on, then. She stands above him, watching in delighted fascination as his life bleeds into the 221B carpet.

The world fades into a haze of grey as he sees her finally stepping away, towards the door and to freedom. He sees her on her phone just before he blacks out; fingers typing out a message.

 

John finds him.

 

He wakes up in a hospital-things are sterile, and cold, and white. John tells him he's been out for three days. There are dark shadows under his eyes. Sherlock wants to kiss them away, to make him happy again.

John tells him that Mary was pregnant.

 Sherlock imagines pressing a gun to her belly and pulling the trigger.

-=-=-=-=-

 

Even after he recovers, John doesn't let him touch him for a month. He barely speaks; this time it is Sherlock who's forcing him to stay alive. Telling him that he can do this, that he loves him, that he'll be there to help him.

One evening Sherlock comes upstairs with takeaway picked out especially for him, and the smell of alcohol is on his breath and anger is in his eyes.

"You. If you'd never come back, she wouldn't care. She wouldn't have found you interesting. Just like Everyone. finds you. So fucking interesting."

"John, we can talk about this if you want...it's going to be okay...it's-" his voice is broken off in a cry of pain as John's fist connects with his chin.

"IT'S NOT OKAY. IT'S A FUCKING WRECK, SHERLOCK, IT'S A BLOODY FUCKING WRECK." John is screaming at him, and there's blood running down his chin and then he's crying, crumpling to his knees and sobbing like a child. And Sherlock cannot bear it; the East Wind always gives way to that of the Warm South. He crawls forward, spitting out his own blood and pulling the sobbing man into his arms.

"Shhh...." he whispers. "I love you, I'm going to take care of you, you're so perfect, it's going to be alright."

John's sobs gradually quiet and he falls asleep, curled into his arms.

Sherlock sits with him and lets the blood dry.

-=-=-=-

Sherlock adores him. Adores everything about him wholeheartedly. He’s not going to let him go now.

John touches him the next night. Brings him off with his hand as they lie sprawled on the couch tipsy from Sherlock's special brandy and finishing up Hannibal. Sherlock ignores the psychosis on the screen however to a much more carnal pleasure; that of the hand of the man he loves most on this earth touching him, feeding him pleasure in breathless little sips that leave him moaning and thrusting blindly. After he comes, John gathers him up in his arms and kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him. Caresses the bruise formed on his left jaw and cries softly into his hair.

"I love you," he chokes out. "I love you so much."

Sherlock doesn't need to hear him say anything else. His declaration is his apology. His saviour damns himself with his own words.

No matter. Sherlock is happy for them to be dragged down to hell together. The East Wind doesn't know remorse. Only what's ahead.

-=-=-=-=-

John calls him Broken. And Beautiful. And Fragile. He sees himself in the mirror every morning, and he knows that he deserves the names. But they are not meant in a hurtful way; Sherlock sees himself more clearly than anyone. Like the shards of a shattered mirror, John says.

Broken, but still beautiful.

Beautiful and deadly.

-=-=-=-=-

**Notes:** The poem for which this work is named is called The Winds of Fate by Heather Burns.

_Life grabbed a heart_   
_twisting and twirling_   
  
_Until shards fell_   
_along its pathway_   
  
_Stepping aside_   
_restoration began_   
  
_But incomplete_   
  
_Like a broken mirror_   
_a thousand pieces_   
  
_Caught in the wind_   
_and blew away._


End file.
